


Oh, Comrade! My Comrade!

by AnotherAnon0



Category: Biohazard | Resident Evil (Gameverse)
Genre: Character Study, Devotion, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, I Am Sorry, Implied Sexual Content, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Military, Patriotism, Please Forgive me, Pre-Canon, Puppy Play, Rough Oral Sex, Short One Shot, Soviet Union
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-10
Updated: 2020-10-12
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:55:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26916952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnotherAnon0/pseuds/AnotherAnon0
Summary: A young, dedicated conscript meets his hero.[pre-canon, taking significant liberties. I am so so sorry just kick me off this site please][UPDATE: Because I was asked to post the... smutty version... "Chapter 1" is the not smutty, fluffy version of the story and "Chapter 2" is the dirty version of the story. Enjoy!]
Relationships: Sergei Vladimir/Joseph Stalin
Comments: 17
Kudos: 7





	1. Chapter 1

**January 5, 1953**

Sergei's hands wrung at his waist awkwardly, the leather of his gloves _squeaking_ and _crunching_ in the pin-fall silence of the grand hall as he worked his fingers through his knuckles.

He wanted to wipe the sweat he knew was accumulating on the back of his clammy neck, but was too anxious to move. Suddenly, his dress uniform was too hot, the dark-green felt sweltering against his skin and betraying the coolness of the Russian winter storm that had been raging outside when he arrived to the elaborate _dacha_. 

Before him, two similarly-dressed guards were standing at attention -- one at each side of the large, wooden double doors he was facing. 

The guards barely acknowledged his presence, so focused on their task. They stood completely still, barely blinking, barely breathing. Sergei caught the occasional twitch of silence in one or the other's strong, sharp jawlines.

Sergei quietly admired them, glance panning their stoic faces with awe.

 _They're so lucky..._ He thought to himself, Adams apple bobbing in his throat.

Sergei cast a glance towards the large, wooden grandfather clock at the end of the hall. He'd been standing in waiting for almost one hour, but he didn't even consider complaining, nor did he feel any sense of irritation. His bubbling mix of excitement and nervousness hadn't faltered -- it hadn't for days, ever since he got the fateful call inviting him to Joseph Stalin's personal residence to be commended for his bravery. 

Since then, he'd not been able to sleep. Or eat. Or drink. Even smoking was a task, fingers shaking nervously and fumbling over his cartons, dropping cigarettes and burning himself on the lighter. 

Sergei Vladimir wasn't the nervous type. He'd cast himself into battle the moment he was old enough to voluntarily conscript, an any enemy who crossed his platoon lamented the day they had been born. Grenades, bullets, shrapnel and fire -- nothing phased him. But when the shiny, black car came to pick him up from the barracks, he'd almost not been able to leave -- military comrades having to practically drag him through the halls to the doorway and throw him into the vehicle. 

His teeth had rattled the whole way. 

Suddenly, his thoughts and self-chastising was interrupted. One of the statue-still guards had turned and leaned into the door, swinging it open after a brief rasp. 

The guard stared at him impatiently, lip cocking in frustration when the young soldier didn't immediately move to enter through the space he'd made for him.

"Well?" The man spat. 

Sergei nodded, clearing his throat before striding towards the door. As he crossed the threshold, the guard closed it behind him -- the wood making a loud, rattling _click_ as it locked into the frame.

The room was much darker than the hallway had been. The scent of fire burning matched the lovely sound of wood _crackling_ and the softest, quietest recording being played.

He wasn't educated enough to know what the piece was. But he thought it was beautiful, and it was momentarily calming. 

That moment was quickly stolen when his gaze panned the room, and found him standing by the fireplace.

 _Him_. 

Joseph Stalin.

The General Secretary of the Soviet Union.

_My hero._

Sergei immediately saluted, a formal greeting he was unable to speak through. The heels of his boots clicked against each other, fingers straight and extended across the brim of his shiny, peaked cap.

Stalin smiled, plucking his pipe from his lips and waving it dismissively at him. "No need for that, now. We're all comrades here."

A shaky, softened breath escaped him as Sergei lowered his hand. But it darted up as quickly as it had fallen, snatching his cap from his head and tucking it under his shoulder.

In seconds, he felt like he'd forgotten all of his military training. 

He'd never felt so stupid in his life.

"I apologise for my tardiness." The older man smiled, taking a short puff of his pipe, "There was a call... It went longer than expected."

Sergei huffed a breath through his nose, cursing his rattling teeth behind tight lips and balling his fists at his sides in an attempt to steady himself enough to speak.

"P-please don't b-be, Sir! Y-you are s-so busy! P-perhaps I should leave!"

" _Nyet, nyet_." He chuckled, "Do not worry yourself." 

He extended a hand, pointing to the large, leather chair a few feet away from where he stood, "Sit, please."

The first step Sergei took deeper into the room felt as though it took one hundred years. His boots plodded softly on the red, velveteen carpet. Every inch the space between them closed was filled with electricity -- sparks firing off in Sergei's stomach as the led ball in his throat grew bigger and more tinny. 

"How old are you, soldier?"

"Eighteen, S-sir! Comrade General Secretary, Sir!" 

Stalin cocked his head to the side, looking on in continued amusement as the young man settled into the chair nervously, setting his hat down beside him, "You are quite tall for your age." 

Sergei felt the air leave his lungs when the older man touched him, finger grazing along his right cheek with a small, inquisitive prod. He was stroking along the bandages there -- the ones that covered the still-healing wounds over his right eye.

Or, what had been his right eye.

He leaned into the touch involuntarily, turning his head slightly. Stalin's fingers were calloused and rough, and the touch elicited goosebumps to tickle across his neck.

Silence settled into the room -- nothingness inviting the return of the soft noises that had calmed him initially.

Firewood crackling.

Music humming, a different song now.

"You are terribly brave." Stalin said softly, pipe bouncing between his lips as he spoke, "Comrade Smirnov told me all about how threw yourself over that mine to save others."

Sergei felt his cheeks flush pathetically, gaze darting to the carpet as a ragged sigh fell from his lips. 

"I would do anything for the Motherland, Sir. I would give both my eyes. I don't care. Anything for our country." For the first time since he'd entered the room, the words were firm, strong, and unbending. He didn't stutter, nor did he fumble. His good eye lulled back up to look at the elder, Adams apple bobbing in his throat. "Anything for _you_ , Comrade Sir."

Stalin plucked the pipe from his lips, grinning a bright smile that peeped white teeth from under his dark moustache. His hand combed upwards, stroking the tip of. finger through Sergei's glossy, brown hair. He brushed through a few of the strands of bang that were longer than the rest. Though it wasn't military regulation approved, Sergei was growing it all out to cover the damaged half of his face. He hated looking at himself in the mirror.

But just as self-consciousness began to set in, Sergei's lips twitching slightly, chin dipping down so as to mask himself, it was as though the older man could see his thoughts playing out in his head. 

"I wouldn't recommend losing the other one." He winked, "You're a handsome boy. You need to be able to see all the ladies who will line up to marry a war hero like you."

His gaze pulled up again, the flush on Sergei's cheeks suddenly flared as though gasoline had been tossed into a bonfire. Or, as though that incessant sparkling at the back of Stalin's dark eyes were raining sparks down upon him.

"I have no use for women!" He blathered, immediately regretting the random, involuntary outburst. He wanted to slap his hand against his mouth. 

Stalin cocked an eyebrow, smile unwavering.

"I--I... It is all a distraction from service, Sir." Sergei rambled, "I don't like to be distracted from my duties with such things... Liquor. Women. Games."

"Ahh yes. Such pesky things. What else is a distraction? Food? Air?" Stalin laughed.

Sergei immediately felt embarrassed, humiliation catching at his throat as he absorbed the soft, well-intentioned jeer. It was in that moment that he realised the older man's hand was still petting through his hair -- a soft, gentle sensation that kept his heartbeat steady. A moment of silence passed before the hand was withdrawn, and its absence left a pinch of pain on Sergei's head he didn't quite understand the origin of.

"Come. Let's have a distraction." Stalin smiled, cocking his chin towards the massive wood desk at the other end of the room. A silver tray glinted in the dim light of the fireplace, a bottle of vodka and a set of small, crystal _stopka_ glasses atop of it. 

He led the way, Sergei padding softly behind him, shoulders curled down in hopes of making himself seem smaller. It felt wrong to be towering over a much more powerful man.

Stalin set his pipe down on the metal tray, snuffing it out with a small, wooden prod before pouring them each a glass.

He offered Sergei his first, but the young soldier waited until Stalin had brought his to his lips before drinking his. He was inexperienced, vodka never having been something he partook in when the rest of his comrades were sharing the bottle. His throat burned as the noxious liquid trickled down into his stomach, sinuses flaring open and lips twisting slightly at the heavy, gasoline-like flavour. 

Stalin had drank his without a flinch, licking his lips and immediately refilling his glass. 

"Would you like more?" He smiled, watching Sergei's face still recover from the last. 

"N-no, Sir. Thank you, you are very generous!" Sergei gasped hoarsely, setting his _stopka_ down on the desk gently. In his mouth, his tongue was lashing at his cheeks, desperate to comb away the taste.

Stalin chuckled, replacing the bottle on the tray. He threw the renewed glass back with as much speed and efficiency as he had the first, sighing contently. 

Sergei peered curiously at the newspaper that was just barely covered by the silver tray. It was a foreign paper -- he'd never seen anything like it, and couldn't understand the few characters he could make out on the greying page.

"From American news." Stalin said, noticing where the young man's gaze had fallen, "I like to keep up on what they are saying about me."

"Of course, Comrade. I can't read English like you can..." Sergei cleared his throat, deciding he'd ask a question, "What.. what are they saying?

"They called me _unstable_."

Sergei's stomach immediately dropped through the floor, rage welling up in his mind almost immediately. His fists tightened, leather gloves squeaking as his hands balled tightly.

"Bastards! Absolute _**pigs**_!" Sergei spat, fury rippling through his deep voice, "How **_dare_** th--"

His righteous rant was immediately interrupted by the sensation of a hand on his chest. His gaze darted down, the flush re-igniting across his cheeks in a streak of red as the older man's fingers gently stroked at his breast.

"Don't worry yourself, little _mal'chik_." The older man's eyes flicked towards the darkest throes of the back of the large office -- a daybed with dark red linens just barely visible through the shadows.

_Anything for you, Comrade Sir._

"The people who go down in history as its heroes are never stable."


	2. Comrade Puppy Dog

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> PLEASE READ: This is not another chapter. This is version 2.0 of the story with the nasty filthy smut I decided (read: too embarrassed) not to post the first time around. 
> 
> So the first 1/4 the story is almost the same. :D

**January 5, 1953**

Sergei's hands wrung at his waist awkwardly, the leather of his gloves _squeaking_ and _crunching_ in the pin-fall silence of the grand hall as he worked his fingers through his knuckles.

He wanted to wipe the sweat he knew was accumulating on the back of his clammy neck, but was too anxious to move. Suddenly, his dress uniform was too hot, the dark-green felt sweltering against his skin and betraying the coolness of the Russian winter storm that had been raging outside when he arrived to the elaborate _dacha_. 

Before him, two similarly-dressed guards were standing at attention -- one at each side of the large, wooden double doors he was facing. 

The guards barely acknowledged his presence, so focused on their task. They stood completely still, barely blinking, barely breathing. Sergei caught the occasional twitch of silence in one or the other's strong, sharp jawlines.

Sergei quietly admired them, glance panning their stoic faces with awe.

 _They're so lucky..._ He thought to himself, Adams apple bobbing in his throat.

Sergei cast a glance towards the large, wooden grandfather clock at the end of the hall. He'd been standing in waiting for almost one hour, but he didn't even consider complaining, nor did he feel any sense of irritation. His bubbling mix of excitement and nervousness hadn't faltered -- it hadn't for days, ever since he got the fateful call inviting him to Joseph Stalin's personal residence to be commended for his bravery. 

Since then, he'd not been able to sleep. Or eat. Or drink. Even smoking was a task, fingers shaking nervously and fumbling over his cartons, dropping cigarettes and burning himself on the lighter. 

Sergei Vladimir wasn't the nervous type. He'd cast himself into battle the moment he was old enough to voluntarily conscript, an any enemy who crossed his platoon lamented the day they had been born. Grenades, bullets, shrapnel and fire -- nothing phased him. But when the shiny, black car came to pick him up from the barracks, he'd almost not been able to leave -- military comrades having to practically drag him through the halls to the doorway and throw him into the vehicle. 

His teeth had rattled the whole way. 

Suddenly, his thoughts and self-chastising was interrupted. One of the statue-still guards had turned and leaned into the door, swinging it open after a brief rasp. 

The guard stared at him impatiently, lip cocking in frustration when the young soldier didn't immediately move to enter through the space he'd made for him.

"Well?" The man spat. 

Sergei nodded, clearing his throat before striding towards the door. As he crossed the threshold, the guard closed it behind him -- the wood making a loud, rattling _click_ as it locked into the frame.

The room was much darker than the hallway had been. The scent of fire burning matched the lovely sound of wood _crackling_ and the softest, quietest recording being played.

He wasn't educated enough to know what the piece was. But he thought it was beautiful, and it was momentarily calming. 

That moment was quickly stolen when his gaze panned the room, and found him standing by the fireplace.

 _Him_. 

Joseph Stalin.

The General Secretary of the Soviet Union.

_My hero._

Sergei immediately saluted, a formal greeting he was unable to speak through. The heels of his boots clicked against each other, fingers straight and extended across the brim of his shiny, peaked cap.

Stalin smiled, plucking his pipe from his lips and waving it dismissively at him. "No need for that, now. We're all comrades here."

A shaky, softened breath escaped him as Sergei lowered his hand. But it darted up as quickly as it had fallen, snatching his cap from his head and tucking it under his shoulder.

In seconds, he felt like he'd forgotten all of his military training. 

He'd never felt so stupid in his life.

"I apologise for my tardiness." The older man smiled, taking a short puff of his pipe, "There was a call... It went longer than expected."

Sergei huffed a breath through his nose, cursing his rattling teeth behind tight lips and balling his fists at his sides in an attempt to steady himself enough to speak.

"P-please don't b-be, Sir! Y-you are s-so busy! P-perhaps I should leave!"

" _Nyet, nyet_." He chuckled, "Do not worry yourself." 

He extended a hand, pointing to the large, leather chair a few feet away from where he stood, "Sit, please."

The first step Sergei took deeper into the room felt as though it took one hundred years. His boots plodded softly on the red, velveteen carpet. Every inch the space between them closed was filled with electricity -- sparks firing off in Sergei's stomach as the led ball in his throat grew bigger and more tinny. 

"How old are you, soldier?"

"Eighteen, S-sir! Comrade General Secretary, Sir!" 

Stalin cocked his head to the side, looking on in continued amusement as the young man settled into the chair nervously, setting his hat down beside him, "You are quite tall for your age." 

Sergei felt the air leave his lungs when the older man touched him, finger grazing along his right cheek with a small, inquisitive prod. He was stroking along the bandages there -- the ones that covered the still-healing wounds over his right eye.

Or, what had been his right eye.

He leaned into the touch involuntarily, turning his head slightly. Stalin's fingers were calloused and rough, and the touch elicited goosebumps to tickle across his neck.

Silence settled into the room -- nothingness inviting the return of the soft noises that had calmed him initially.

Firewood crackling.

Music humming, a different song now.

"You are terribly brave." Stalin said softly, pipe bouncing between his lips as he spoke, "Comrade Smirnov told me all about how threw yourself over that mine to save others."

Sergei felt his cheeks flush pathetically, gaze darting to the carpet as a ragged sigh fell from his lips. 

"I would do anything for the Motherland, Sir. I would give both my eyes. I don't care. Anything for our country." For the first time since he'd entered the room, the words were firm, strong, and unbending. He didn't stutter, nor did he fumble. His good eye lulled back up to look at the elder, Adams apple bobbing in his throat. "Anything for _you_ , Comrade Sir."

Stalin plucked the pipe from his lips, grinning a bright smile that peeped white teeth from under his dark moustache. His hand combed upwards, stroking the tip of. finger through Sergei's glossy, brown hair. He brushed through a few of the strands of bang that were longer than the rest.

"Anything, little _mal'chik_..?"

" ** _Anything_** , Sir." Sergei knew his face was beet red. He could feel the heat rolling off of his cheeks, burning hotter with every little pet he was issued, but the words he spoke were forceful. 

Stalin chuckled, "Tell me. What do you think I would ever need from you?"

The question caught Sergei off guard, the young man's brow cocking upwards as the well-meaning challenge was presented. Immediately, his mind began to run through itself, desperately seeking some way to respond. 

"I..." His mouth gaped stupidly, good eye darting around the floor idly, "i.. I don't know, Comrade Sir..." Sergei sputtered.

The young man suddenly slid from the armchair, effortlessly slipping to his knees and looking up with a pleading, desperate gaze.

"But if I could give you anything! Organs! Blood!" Sergei brought his hands up to his chest, crossing his fingers as though he were praying, "Anything! Please tell me what you need... I will give it joyously, gratefully! It would be the greatest honour, my Comrade!"

The hand that had been stroking through his hair dropped down the side of his face, fingers grazing the bandages as they passed. Sergei felt them tickle the underside of his jawline, a thumb playing along the little space between his chin and lower lip. 

"You are so loyal, hmm? Like a dog." 

Sergei swallowed when the thumb rose ever-so-slightly, combing across his lower lip. It dragged the tender flesh to the side, pulling his mouth open gently. The younger man barely flinched when it pushed its way in, stroking along the inside of his lip gently. Involuntarily, his lips closed around the digit, tongue darting to grasp a taste of it. He felt immediately intoxicated, good eye fluttering shut as he took in the salty-sweet flavour of the older man's skin. 

"Would you like that? To be my little puppy dog?"

" _Da_..!" Sergei moaned eagerly around the thumb. 

In an instant, it was gone, leaving a heavy void in its place that caused his lips to twitch.

He wanted it back.

Sergei's eyes opened to the sight of Stalin fiddling with the opening of his grey dress pants. A heaviness was settling in Sergei's stomach, matching the whirring and spinning of his mind. A part of him couldn't believe what was happening, consciousness running frantically between anxiety and hazy desire -- and a part of him simply didn't _care_ about the technicalities. 

Slowly, he lifted his hands from where they had settled on his chest, working through the clasps before him. The older man's hand fell away as he took over, popping each of the gold buttons free until the material slackened open. Sergei looked upwards, searching in the Stalin's eyes for approval. Suddenly, he felt his hand be taken by the wrist. He allowed himself to be manipulated, following the direction being provided until his hand had slipped into the fabric opening. 

He felt a hardness there -- a warmth that immediately sent a wave of electricity through his stomach. He felt stupid, fumbling awkwardly as he pulled the erection free, unable to mask the little shudders of anxiety and nervousness that were tickling their way across his shoulders. 

Sergei stared at the exposed organ intently while his fingers pushed back the material of the trousers further. He felt himself entirely entranced, mind dangerously hazy. The heat of the fireplace was curling into his back, warming him fully.

"I-- I am... not..." Sergei licked his lips, glancing back upwards, "I have no experience with these things, Sir! But I want to p-please you, Sir!"

Stalin smirked, hand combing its way across the younger man's hair again, "Just give it a lick, my loyal puppy dog."

Sergei didn't hesitate in complying, immediately darting forward and issuing a sloppy, amateur lap across the head, and then another. He tried slower licks, rougher ones, whatever he could manage to think his way through in his head. While his stomach burned with the usual symptoms of need -- he had no concern for his own pleasure, so focused on the task before him.

"All the way down, puppy dog."

Lifting the erection slightly, Sergei planted his tongue at the base, licking from one end of the shaft to the other. He curled his tongue around the width, and was rewarded with a groan from the older man. 

The teen savoured each moment that passed, contently absorbing the bittersweet flavour of the erection. Quickly, Stalin's erection became moist with his saliva, reddened skin reflecting the flicker of warm light from the fireplace. Sergei closed his fingers around the base of the cock gently, lapping up the length a few more times before setting his lips at the tip again.

A part of him was afraid. He'd never engaged intimately with a man before. He barely had any experience with women -- considering them a distraction from his duties. He was practically a virgin, and worried he would do something wrong that displeased his hero.

 _He chose me.._. His vacuous, warm mind thought. The _leader of our people. He chose me -- I must give him pleasure._

His lips parted widely, and he pushed himself over the slick cock, intently focused on ensuring his teeth didn't graze the firm flesh. 

"Good puppy dog..." Stalin groaned, curling his fingers through the teen's hair. "You didn't even have to be told. Such a smart puppy dog."

The breathy praise excited him, joy bubbling through his heart as he was lauded. It encouraged him to take the erection deeper, pushing himself until he felt it jut up against the back of his throat. He involuntarily gagged, choking around the cock and jerking away to catch a breath. 

Immediately, he was disappointed with himself. 

"I'm s-so sorry, Comrade Sir!" He rasped, gaze darting up. He felt the familiar, pathetic pinpricks of humiliation poking at the inner corner of his eye.

"Don't be, puppy dog." Stalin chuckled. A red flush had taken over his cheeks, "All puppies need training."

Sergei nodded and parted his lips again, but this time the hand on the back of his head gripped firmly, preventing him from moving to envelope the cock with his lips.

"You sit still. Let me show you how."

" _D-da_ , Sir!" Sergei chirped, stilling himself and opening his mouth widely. The moment he did, the older man thrusted his hips forward, burying his erection in the teen's throat firmly.

Sergei immediately gagged, eyes widening as he choked and coughed around the intrusion. He would have jerked away, but the firm grip in his hair made it impossible to move. Drool began to spittle out of the corners of his mouth

"Breathe, puppy dog!" Stalin ordered, stilling himself until he could hear the younger man taking desperate, shallow breaths though his nose. He waited longer, listening for a pattern that would indicate he was calming himself and had enough air.

"Just keep breathing through your nose like that..." He murmured, repositioning his boots slightly and pulling back until only the head of his erection was sheathed. He rocked his hips forward again, repeating until he'd found a slow, steady rhythm Sergei wasn't struggling with. 

While his mind was screaming with the anxiety of inconsistent airflow, Sergei forced himself to cope. He listened to the beautiful mews and moans trickling out from the man above him, pride and happiness swelling in his chest. His own erection was prodding at the fabric of his tight uniform pants, but he kept his hands planted firmly on his thighs, kneading the material there while reminding himself it was not about him.

Suddenly, the cock in his mouth began to drool, leaking thick, salty cum into his throat. Sergei's good eye widened slightly, flicking up to look at Stalin.

_His seed..._

While it was thick and built up quickly, Sergei managed to swallow, silently delighting as it snaked down his throat and warmed his belly.

_His seed. I have his seed in me...!_

So excited, Sergei adapted quickly to the harder, faster thrusts. His nose bobbed against the fabric of the dark grey pants with every deep, long penetration.

He could sense the older man was close, moans gradually turning to ragged, desperate pants and loud sighs. Sergei closed his lips tighter around the erection, hands kneading harder at his thighs as the fire in his belly continued to be brutally neglected. He could feel his cock jutting firmly at the material of his pants, desperate for even a single stroke, but he didn't dare free it. He imagined how embarrassing it would be to expose himself in such a way around a truly great man. He imagined staining the carpet with his cum, soiling Stalin's office in such a perverse way with his fluids. He imagined the older man being disappointed in him. He shuddered it off, returning his focus to the cock in his mouth, and the sloppy, steady gulps he had to make.

Stalin pulled the teen's head firmly into his hips as he thrusted a final time, pressing them together as he orgasmed. The load immediately filled Sergei's mouth, causing him to choke and gurgle, unable to swallow fast enough through the sticky mess clogging his throat. 

The older man watched him struggle with amusement, releasing the grip he had in his hair. Sergei didn't immediately back away, so determined not to spill any of the seed he'd been given. His Adams apple bobbed through loud swallows, and when he'd taken enough, he slowly pulled himself off of the softening erection, lips closing tightly around the flesh as he did, collecting any remaining juice. 

Some cum drooled from his mouth accidentally as he took his first breath, and immediately his hand darted up to scoop it from his chin and shove it back through his lips.

_Not one drop. I can't waste one drop._

As he licked his fingers clean, his gaze rolled up towards the older man, who was buttoning his trousers contently. He reached out once he was done, running a soothing finger over the boy's forehead.

"Have you forgotten your manners?" He murmured softly, "What do you say?"

Sergei gasped in horror, shaking his head, "T-thank you, Comrade General Secretary! I am so--"

Stalin chuckled, cocking his head to the side, " _Nyet, nyet_. Speak like the puppy dog you are."

Sergei felt the flush on his face resurge with a vengeance. 

"W-woof..."

"Again, louder."

The teen felt his brain hazing over again, tongue lapping out of his mouth to grab at a few, stray drops of cum he felt lingering on his lips. Slowly, he sat back on his haunches, and brought his hands up to hang over his chest lazily like paws, 

"Woof! Woof!"

"Good, Comrade puppy dog."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BLAME SHIPVIGILANTE. 
> 
> I wasn't going to post this and then they said "POST IT" SO HERE IT IS. 
> 
> Imagination: Nicholai and Sergei circa 1998 sitting around drinking vodka. 
> 
> Sergei: “let me tell you about the time I sucked Stalin’s dick.”
> 
> Nicholai: ..... I don’t..... wa— 
> 
> Sergei: so the year was 1953. It was a cold and stormy night. 
> 
> Nicholai: I really, really don’t wa— 
> 
> Sergei: I was called to Stalin’s dacha after being a hero and saving the platoon from a mine. 
> 
> Nicholai: Sergei 
> 
> Sergei: I was just 18 at the time, terribly nervous. Practically quaking in my boots by the time Comrade Stalin invited me into his office.
> 
> Nicholai: SERGEI


End file.
